


Species

by darkangel1211



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU building, Alternate Universe, BAMF John, Cat Anthea, Cat Mrs Hudson, Cat Trafficking, Catlock, Crime Scenes, First Meetings, Human John, Human Mycroft, Human/Felidae Pairs, Lots of purring, M/M, Possessive Sherlock, Scenting, Sherlock doesn't have a problem with nudity, Sparring, This doesn't bother John, not a case fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-26 16:06:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1694294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkangel1211/pseuds/darkangel1211
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’ve been ordered to rescue the subject known as 221B for immediate extraction back to London. In this capacity, you don’t have any authority over me. Next?” </p><p>“Sherlock Holmes.”</p><p>“Pardon?” John can’t have heard that. He just can’t. Because that would be a whole new level of wrong right there.</p><p>The man opens his eyes again, glaring at John beneath his fringe with his ears lowered. “My name is Sherlock Holmes. That enough authority for you, Doctor?”</p><p>**ON HOLD - 30/03/2016 - due to RL circs**</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them.
> 
> Welcome to my version of Catlock!
> 
> Inspiration goes to the Catlock all over my tumblr at the moment because Catlock rocks! 
> 
> (To my readers who may be worrying about Perihelion if they see this - part 13 is almost done! Just one last scene to go! Writer's block is a bitch so thank you for your patience! xxx)
> 
> Enjoy!

There are lots of things John can’t stand. Like waiting in the queue at Tesco’s, because that’s a downright pain in the arse no matter which way you look at it. Having to visit the local clinic so he can get the pain meds for his shoulder (even though he’s an army doctor and perfectly within his rights to prescribe them himself), but unable to now because of the new laws that came in just before he was shot. Yes, all these things are a nuisance and sent to try him, but, right now, the only thing really grating on his nerves is the yowling.

It’s almost a constant presence every time he walks around the edge of another cage in the hanger, piercing into his skull when one is particularly high pitched. Give him snarls, growls and hisses any day. Just stop the bloody yowling.

Granted, it’s not as ear piercing as some of the sounds he’s heard here, and it’s actually the teeth that give him the shivers. The length of the canines varies between the species but the teeth are certainly sharp enough to cause injury if one of them manages to get a hold of you. John’s been lucky enough to avoid that particular trauma.

He still eyes the barred cages warily, originally used to enclose animals in a circus, and checks the doors held closed by mechanisms that can only be opened from the outside. The doors themselves are weighed down to prevent any chances of escape, but he doesn’t doubt for a second that, given the opportunity, they are petty obstacles to the animals inside. But it’s not only the doors that the animals have to contend with.

John can already see it happening to this one. Stopping outside one of the cages, he peers inside at its occupant and notes how the animal doesn’t even lift its head to snarl at him. Even in the poor light, John can see it’s curled up on its side facing the door, limbs brought in to protect itself as it shudders on the wooden floor. The animal has enough fur to keep it warm (it must have been part of the new batch) and there’s a loose section of cloth wrapped around its hips, but it’s not trembling because it’s cold. He can’t go near it for obvious reasons, but it’s pretty apparent that the thing is riddled with fever.

“Is it dead yet?”

John doesn’t take his eyes away from the creature, not even when the man (David, he thinks), comes to a stop on his right side. “Not yet.”

David growls something inhospitable. “Fucking things. This one’ll pollute the whole bloody line.”

“Shame that this one is the most valuable,” John says, stepping back from the cage to look David in the eye. The man looks gruffer than he sounds; your typical black market trader with the end of a cigarette dangling between his lips. “If we don’t get some meds into him soon he’ll die and take a sizable portion of your profits with him.”

“Why?” David peers into the cage, eyes hungrily taking in the creature as if the secret will materialise in front of him. “What is he?”

John looks back into the cage, surprised that, for a dealer, David doesn’t already know. From this angle he can see the fur which lines the top of the arms, the whole of the legs, back and tail and the fur across the nape of the neck. The chest and stomach don’t have fur generally, but the groin and buttocks do, along with a protective pouch for the genitals of the male which only protrude for mating. Judging from the colour of the fur he’s guessing _Panthera Uncia,_ but the ears don’t match so it’s probably a mixed breed. Mixed breeds aren’t unusual, are even actively encouraged by their human collectors, but this one is different. “I’m not entirely sure,” he says, “but I have my suspicions. It’s why I need to get in there; see if I can fix him up.”

David looks back at him, glancing up and down John’s body, and John knows he’s being sized up. “Pfssh, be my guest,” David says disparagingly, hands slipping into his leather jacket and pulling out another cigarette and his lighter as he spits the old dog-end on the floor. “Should I evacuate the hanger?” he says. “Barricade you inside until it’s done tearing you to pieces?”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” John says, ignoring the barbs and kneeling down beside to the door to open his med kit, debating the use of a tranquillizer. Given the way the creature looks right now, it probably wouldn’t survive a single dart. “You’d better clear the area,” he says, looking over his shoulder at David. “I can’t risk tranquillising it and I don’t want anyone else getting hurt if this goes wrong.”

David shrugs. “You’re the doctor,” and hollers, “Clear out!” once, twice, hearing the answering calls of the other men assigned to this job and the great, squealing racket of the hanger door being pushed open. “Tricky business, this,” he says, watching as John finishes checking his med kit. “Remember I hired you to do a job. You’d better not fuck this up for me, you hear?”

John looks back into the cage at the animal inside, dismissing David’s warning; the dealer isn’t the only one who can handle himself in a fight. “Yeah, I hear you. Now kindly get the fuck out and let me do it.” David has the gall to laugh at that, taking another drag and flicking the ash as he leaves, his shoes echoing on the floor. John breathes a sigh of relief at the other man’s retreat and does up his med kit, assessing his options as he takes in the animal’s present condition.

David also isn’t the only one with a job to do.

oOo

_Three weeks earlier_

“Dr John Watson?”

The voice is a new one he hasn’t heard before, feminine, with a faint rolling trill at the pronunciation of the O in his first name as he walks to the counter in the pharmacy. His cane clicks alongside him as he turns to look at the woman standing off to one corner and he can definitely say he’s intrigued. They very rarely address humans with their titles, although it’s probably because of the lack of titles in their own language and their minimal regard for them as a result. The title is only a specification of role for them. Not a status symbol.

She’s pretty, this one. Long auburn hair with faint curls at the ends. Caucasian descent, he guesses, with traces of Bombay given the colour of the fur on her ears, around her neck and on the tail he can see curling and flicking behind her. Normally he wouldn’t give it a second thought in attempting to ask her out, but he can see from the way her bright yellow eyes are focussed on the screen of her blackberry that she’s here on business. The fact that she knows who he is at all suggests there is something more at work here.

“Yes?” he asks, keeping his distance as he waits for her to make the first move. Just because the actual domestic version loves attention, it still depends on the human side of the equation and he doesn’t want to inadvertently step on any social boundaries.

“My employer has expressed an interest in you for work,” she says, her eyes flicking up and seizing his in an unwavering focus. Her tone is teasing, slightly flirtatious, and John is torn between deciding if this is because she’s actually interested or if it’s because she needs him to come along. “Don’t worry about your medication. I have taken the liberty of picking it up for you,” and the bag hangs from one artfully clawed finger.

Well, it not as if his shoulder is hurting him at the moment and she already had him with that playful smile, the tips of her canines just showing on her lower lip, so why the hell not? It’s not as if he’s already got a job. “Lead the way,” he says with his own smile and follows behind her to the black car which has just pulled up outside the pharmacy, showing no hesitation at all in climbing in the back with her and shutting the door. 

oOo

_Present day_

Assessment completed, John takes a minimal amount of comfort in the knowledge that he was right from the start. The man in the cage is unable to support his own weight and hasn’t looked at him once, but John doesn’t know if the fever has done enough that the man won’t put up a fight. A dangerous gamble given the nature of the species, but the choice is out of his hands. If the man wants to live, he will have to submit to treatment.

John walks away from the door and to the side closest to where the man’s head is, watching as the ears twitch towards his direction; awareness, but not fear. Not yet. He can feel eyes burning their way into the back of his skull and he knows he’s being watched by the others in their cages. The air is very still; they want to hear what he has to say.  “I know you can hear me,” he says, crouching down so he’s almost at the man’s level. “I need you listen very carefully.”

Lay out the scene; prepare the patient for the treatment to come. No nasty surprises here.

“I need to treat you for your illness but I can’t do that out here,” he says, keeping his voice low and gentle. He’s hoping it sounds as persuasive as he needs it to be. “I have no guarantee that you won’t attack me the minute I open the cage, but I’m hoping that your will to survive is stronger than your instinct to fight. I’m asking you to let me help you.”

The ears twitch again, the long, dark hairs at the pointed tips swaying in the air with each movement, and it’s too orchestrated to be just an itch, even with the almost constant shuddering. It’s not an acceptance, but at least it’s an acknowledgement that John’s been heard. It will have to do.

Taking a deep breath, John walks around to the controls next to the door, taking another look at the man inside before steeling his nerves and hitting the switch. The metal creaks loudly as the door is pulled from the ground, giving John access to the captive inside and any inherent dangers that come with him. The cage is high enough that he doesn’t need to crouch to get inside it and he slowly inches his way past the door, aware of the fact that he is entering the man’s territory. It may be a cage and forced imprisonment to boot, but it doesn’t take away the fact that John is now in owned space.

The man doesn’t move from his position as John inches towards him, giving him ample time to voice any concerns over John’s proximity before he gets within range. Nothing comes and John kneels down next to his patient, placing his med kit down beside him. “I need to check you for injuries after I give you an injection for the fever,” he says. “This means I will need to physically examine you, but you need to let me know if you experience any discomfort. Okay?”

Another ear flick; apparently this is all John’s going to get.

Before he begins, he holds his hand out towards where the man’s face is. He can’t see it right now because the man has buried his face in his arms, but John knows that this shouldn’t impede the sense of smell. It’s a small gesture; the man knows what he sounds like and now he knows John’s scent. John knows he’s unwashed and unkempt but strong man-made fragrances are a bad idea. Better to have his own natural body odour rather than the latest Lynx product.

He spots it a moment later, the deep inhale which pushes the man’s chest out, followed by another ear flick and a quiet rumble on the exhale. It takes John a second to realise that the rumbling isn’t a growl; it’s the beginning of a purr.

Well, that’s interesting.

It ends almost as soon as it begins but it’s enough to get John started in earnest. He fishes out the equipment from his bag that will treat the fever and approaches the man’s head, gently taking hold of one wrist and pulling it towards him. The action is allowed, the limb held poised but manoeuvrable by its owner as John presses his thumb into the indent of the elbow, searching for the main vein. There aren’t any growls from the man when John carefully inserts the needle and the medicine is administered without incident, to John’s immediate relief. Needles are often a prickly affair, in every sense of the word.  

He approaches the back of the man after he packs his medical supplies and decides to begin with the legs, pressing his hands lightly to the hip joints and running his hand down the furred length of them. A closer inspection is made of the knee and ankle joints, rotating as much as the bones will allow and checking for any sprains which may have occurred during capture. Unlike humans, the ankle joints are very much like an undersized version of the hind legs on normal cats, allowing the species to sprint on all fours if needed, but John hasn’t seen it happen since his return to England.

Onto the paws now and they are massive, bigger than John’s hand. The claws are permanently extended and measure an inch long; a gentle stroke along each one confirms that they are not cracked or fractured and are very sharp. It’s enough for John to know that this one takes care of himself. The metatarsal and digital pads on the bottom of the paws are also checked for any cuts or splits but the pads are slightly springy to the touch and there aren’t any signs of infection that John can see. So far so good.   

As he continues, John makes sure he says what he’s doing at each point so he doesn’t inadvertently startle his patient and the legs are soon completed. He begins to check the tail, starting at the base of the man’s spine and feeling the bones as he slides down its length, long enough that it will reach the man’s ankles when he’s upright. The fur needs a good washing, but John’s willing to bet his army pension that it’s one of the fluffy sort, given the thick denseness of the strands from base to tip.

John pauses for a moment after he finishes with the tail, giving the man some breathing space. Although he’s seems as relaxed as possible, the more difficult bit is yet to come and, being at the sharper end, John’s not willing to take any chances.

Unbidden, a growling rumble emits from the man’s chest and the tail by John’s legs begins to flick at the tip. It’s a bit stereotypical but it gets the point across. John isn’t meant to stop.

As the examination continues, the growling ceases and the man moves his head, exposing his face for the first time since John has seen him. Half-hidden by the shock of dark curls on the man’s head, John can still see the outline of a strong jaw from where he’s sitting and a faint glimmer of teeth when the man partly opens his mouth, exposing the fangs and the sharpness of the teeth between them. It’s a small display but still effective; not a display to threaten, merely a reminder that he is stronger than John and the treatment is happening only because he’s allowing it. Not that John needs any reminders.

Hands now. These are more human-like with four fingers and a thumb, all except for the claws and pads which  closely mirror the ones on the feet. On the wrist John can feel the additional carpal pad which allows for traction and it too is free from infection.

All in all, John can say that he is genuinely surprised. Apart from the fever, something which will need to be closely monitored to ensure it doesn’t progress any further, the man is in remarkably good health. More often than not, John has had to treat a wide array of injuries on the captives, including lacerations, broken bones and gun shots, and it’s not clear why this one has no injuries to speak of. He feels he should ask the question but it’s not his job to pry anyhow.

“Would you shut up?”

A deep, smoothly cultured voice seems to echo in the silence that meets the question, each word carefully tinged with a rolling vibration; John certainly wasn’t expecting that. “I’m sorry?”

The man turns his face towards John and a faint glimmer of colour can be seen as the man half opens his eyes, a streak of pale blue flirting with green glaring at him down a human nose. “You’re distracting me. It’s annoying.”

John sits back on his heels as the man moves away from him, all traces of shuddering disappearing as though it never existed. He props himself up against the bars and watches John through his curls, resting his arms on his knees. “I wasn’t aware I was speaking,” John says and the man narrows his eyes, mouth set into a firm pout.

“You’ve not stopped nattering since you arrived. Now who the bloody hell sent you?”

“Sent me?” John looks towards the cage door to check they’re alone. He’s not about to have his cover blown, not when he’s gotten this far.

“Oh of course,” the man says, closing his eyes and knocking the back of his head against a bar. “It was Mycroft wasn’t it.” It’s not a question. “Stupid, stupid. Never did learn when to keep his big nose out.”

“I’m sorry?”

The man opens his eyes again. “Why do you keep saying that?”

“Well, I…” John frowns. “I don’t understand. That’s why. What happened to your fever?”

The man’s lips curl and John’s not entirely sure whether it’s meant to be a smile or a grimace. Probably a little of both. “Like that bit of acting did you?”

At that, John can’t help but splutter. “Acting? For God’s sake, I’ve just given you medication for it!”

The man waves a hand in dismissal. “I seriously doubt it will cause any adverse side effects. Onto more important matters. Mycroft sent you to extract me, didn’t he?”

“Well...” John’s also not sure when he became this readable. Does he have ‘Rescuer’ stamped to his forehead or something?

“Forget your orders,” the man says and his voice brooks no argument. “You’ll be working for me now.”

John sits back on his haunches, regarding the man with a curious eye and deciding to throw caution to the wind. “I’ve been ordered to rescue the subject known as 221B for immediate extraction back to London. In this capacity, you don’t have any authority over me. Next?”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Pardon?” John can’t have heard that. He just can’t. Because that would be a whole new level of wrong right there.

The man opens his eyes again, glaring at John beneath his fringe with his ears lowered. “My name is Sherlock Holmes. That enough authority for you, Doctor?”

 _Well, shit._    

_To be continued_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them.
> 
> A/N: Thank you to everyone who has read, commented, left kudos, the whole shabang! I love you all! <3<3<3
> 
> (Hopefully the next part won't take as long...)
> 
> Enjoy! xxx

_Three weeks earlier_

Being a part of the British Army, John is no stranger to the black car with the good looking woman routine, but this is the first time he’s experienced it first-hand. You sometimes heard the other men talking in their bunks after lights out; about Tom whatshisname who disappeared for three days and eventually returned citing the Official Secrets Act as well as boasting a higher rank. It didn’t happen all the time but, during the civil unrest, there had been enough people taken from his unit for him to notice.

It’d made John’s stay with the army a little more interesting, if not more challenging, and he’d spent the majority of his time staying away from the rumour mills and focussing on his training. He’d had no desire to be whisked away by an untraceable car where they made you sign God-knows-what before promoting you, preferring to work his way through the ranks with a combination of determination and hard work. Attaining the rank of Captain was the result of everything he considered himself to be, nothing more, nothing less, and he’d be damned if anyone told him otherwise.

Not that it meant anything to the bullet that pierced his shoulder.

It turns out the black car with the good looking woman routine isn’t as exciting as John thought it would be. Trying to talk to her is impossible, but he expected that. He also isn’t surprised when she gives him a fake name (Anthea?) and says, “None at all, John,” when he asks her if there’s any point in him asking where they’re going.

A good start to be fair; isn’t it better when one’s expectations are met?

The posh office at a place called ‘The Diognes Club’ isn’t a surprise either and neither is the man behind the desk. A proper toff is John’s immediate thought, with his tailored suit and his umbrella stand in the corner, but it doesn’t make John feel any more optimistic about his situation when he is proven right. The only thing missing is a name-plate so he knows who the hell he’s talking to.

“Doctor Watson,” the man says once they are alone, leaning back in his chair and resting his hands on his stomach. “Please do take a seat,” and motions to the chair opposite him.

John stays standing a moment longer before deciding not to take the offered seat with a shake of his head. The pause hasn’t gone unnoticed, if the small smile on the other man’s face is any indication.

“It’s a shame you were medically discharged from Her Majesty’s Armed Forces,” the man says. “How is your shoulder?”

The question is carefully asked but it’s not out of sympathy towards John’s war wound. It’s a probing question and he’s had enough of them directed at him to know the difference. “I might be wrong, but you didn’t bring me here to ask me how my shoulder’s doing.”

The man doesn’t even have the decency to try and sugar-coat it and John begrudgingly gives him some points for that. “No, but it does have a relevance to our order of business,” the man says. “I do suggest you have a seat, Doctor. The leg must be hurting you.”

John glances down at his leg at the reminder and nearly falls over when he realises he’s standing upright with no weight on his cane at all. He feels perfectly fine and it goes a long way in proving his therapist right that it’s only psychosomatic, but it’s one thing to be told and another to actually have physical proof.

“Are you a felidae sympathiser, Doctor Watson?” A file materialises on the desk once John takes his seat, placed there with barely a sound and left to sit ominously between them.

John already knows what it is. “Doesn’t it tell you in that file of yours?”

“Your file tells me a lot of things.”

That sounds ominous but John’s learned not to read too much into it; it’s not like he has anything to hide. “No, I’m not,” he says eventually, settling on good, old-fashioned honesty. “I’ve never treated them any differently to how I would treat a human.” It doesn’t matter if it involves slavery, prostitution or trafficking. Human or not, nothing deserves that.

The man doesn’t respond, opening the file and idly flicking through the documents before stopping at one that looks suspiciously like an enrolment form for the British Army. “You served alongside them during your service in Afghanistan,” the man says, turning to another page, “and made it a priority in your medical training to understand their physiology.” The document has a stamp on it that looks remarkably like the one confirming John’s acceptance into the Medical Corps at the age of twenty-one. His copy is back at the flat, stored in a box under his bed with his old army gear.

“I wouldn’t be a good medic if I didn’t know how to treat the wounds of half my men,” John says. When the man doesn’t respond, merely looks at John with a raised eyebrow, John begins to lose his patience. He’s never been a fan of these guessing games. “Tell me what I’m doing here.”

The man pauses, gives John the onceover, and then nods. “There’s been an incident,” he says, pulling out another file from his top drawer and pushing it across the desk, waiting until John opens it before continuing. “Subject 221B has been kidnapped and smuggled into a trafficking ring specialising in rare breeds. We need you to infiltrate the ring and extract him before he comes to harm.”

John flicks through the file in front of him while the man is speaking, his own curiosity hard to resist. There isn’t a picture of the felidae in question, this 221b, but there is a description of height, weight and fur colour, along with a map and corresponding blue print of his last known location. Just outside the border between the Norfolk and Suffolk counties in a town called Great Yarmouth; a good spot for a smuggling operation as the town has its own harbour, one with direct access to the European continent. If the smuggling goes undetected for long enough, it can stretch as far as Russia and Malaysia. It’s in 221b’s best interest that the ring doesn’t get that far.

The operation is clearly laid out. It’s a simple extraction exercise, a one man mission with backup once the subject has been identified and the main ringleaders have been targeted. John’s job is to get inside the hanger where 221B is being held captive and assess his condition before escorting him safely off the premises, allowing the so-called backup to finish rounding up the rest of the men involved in the smuggling.

It all sounds too good to be true and the only thing wrong with the operation, as far as John can see, is himself. “So what am I doing here? You must have the entire British Army at your disposal,” which the other man doesn’t deny.

“We need a man of your calibre to ensure that this mission succeeds,” the man says.

It’s said with such sincerity that John is hard-pressed to dispute it, but his own doubts in his abilities to do this job are too strong to ignore. “How can I possibly be of any use to you?” John asks. “I was discharged from my unit because I was shot and I can’t even get a job at my local GP; what use is someone like that?” 

“On the contrary,” the man says, “you are just the man I’ve been looking for.” He motions to John’s file. “You already know the pain in your leg is psychosomatic. Your surprise when I pointed it out to you is proof enough of that and I’m far more interested in your left hand.”

John looks down, flexing his fingers and turning his hand over to look at his palm. “What’s wrong with my hand?”

The man takes the file away, the one concerning 221B, leaving John’s file in its place. “You have an intermittent tremor. Your therapist thinks its post-traumatic stress disorder and that you’re haunted by memories of your military service. But we both know that’s not true, don’t we.”   

John is unable to stop his flinch, choosing to fix his gaze at the umbrella stand in the corner than look at the other man, all the while knowing that it doesn’t make a blind bit of difference because he’s still an open book. He knows he’s damaged goods and that he’ll never be fixed, but does this bloke have to be such an arse about it? It takes more effort than he would like to remind himself that this isn’t a magic trick; it’s all in the file that the man has just read. It has to be. “Who the hell are you?” he grinds out, only making eye contact again when he’s sure he can maintain it. 

“You should fire your therapist,” the man says, ignoring John’s question. “She’s got it the wrong way round. You’ve been under stress since my assistant brought you here and your hand is perfectly steady.”

John knows the man’s right. He doesn’t need to look at his hand to see the truth of it, but having these facts thrown in his face doesn’t convince him that this man has 221B’s best interest at heart. You don’t point out a prospective rescuer’s faults before a mission; bad practice and all that. “How do I know he won’t come to harm once he’s back in your custody?” John asks. Having fought against and killed his share of oppressors in Afghanistan, there’s no way John is going to let it happen to another felidae if he can prevent it.

“As much as I admire your resolve in keeping him safe,” the man says, “I wouldn’t let it concern you; I can assure you that the subject will be kept safe. However, I would prefer for various reasons that my involvement in his extraction go unmentioned. He is untrustworthy at the best of times.”

Jesus Christ, what is John setting himself up for? “And the worst?”

“He requires, shall we say, a firmer hand than one might imagine,” the man explains. “But you of all people should be aware of what a firm hand means.”

Yes, but that didn’t mean John was happy to do it. They’re not animals, but the threat of physical violence was never far away from the new recruits. He often buddied them up with the long-standing felidaes in his unit, ones who wouldn’t be shy in asserting authority when the youngsters overstepped their boundaries within established protocols. John only stepped in when absolutely necessary, but there were a few times when he was sure he wouldn’t come out of those encounters unscathed. Only the training he’d received in their fighting styles and behaviour had stopped any unwanted visits to the on-site medic.    

“The operation starts in two weeks,” the man says. “You will be given the full details of the assignment before you leave this office. And do take care of yourself, Doctor Watson. 221B can be… difficult.”

John doesn’t remember saying yes, but he hasn’t exactly said no either… “Well, I’ll just have to give him some of that ‘firm hand’ you’ve been telling me about,” he says, unsmiling.

The man pauses, his lips pursing. “It may need more than that. If it comes to it, which I have no doubt it will, you may tell him the name ‘Mycroft’.”

“Mycroft…” Unusual. Not a name he’s going to forget in a hurry. “Right then. I suppose I won’t be seeing you again until after the extraction.”

“Unfortunately there are other more pressing matters which require my attention, but I am very sure of your capabilities.” The man stands up, coming around to John’s side of the desk. John stands as well, using his cane to support a leg that no longer hurts. “I trust that the operation will be a success,” the man says, clasping his hands behind him. “I will be disappointed, of course, should the opposite be true.”

John huffs, shaking his head and grinning. “Disappointed isn’t the word I would use.”

“No. Best ensure it doesn’t come to pass,” the man says and walks back to his side of the desk, taking his seat. “Welcome back, Doctor Watson. You may be on your way.”   

oOo

_Present day_

“Sherlock Holmes?” John pauses, waiting for a response that never comes. “But you’re not related to..?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Not by blood, obviously.”

As if that explains everything. “You can’t honestly expect me to believe you,” John says. “Not after the stunt you just pulled with the fever.” Sherlock bristles at John’s words, a low growl rumbling in his chest which John pointedly ignores; if Sherlock really had taken offence, he would’ve known about it by now. “Even if you are who you say you are,” he continues, “you’re hardly in a position to be giving orders.”

The growling ceases but Sherlock’s eyes are still glowering at John beneath his fringe. “I am hardly helpless, doctor.”

Well, that’s just stating the obvious. As a felidae, Sherlock has the physical advantage here, being stronger and faster than John ever will be, but it takes a lot more than some growling and a flash of teeth to make John second-guess himself. “I never said you were.”

John’s statement seems to placate Sherlock to a degree; the irritated movement of Sherlock’s tail dwindles until it’s just flicking at the tip and his body visibly relaxes against the bars of the cage. Sherlock’s eyes make a sweep of John’s body, lingering, before moving onto his med kit but John doesn’t know what Sherlock’s looking at. He dressed conservatively for this mission (just an old t-shirt, a jacket and jeans) and there’s nothing remarkable about his med kit, but whatever Sherlock sees is making his eyes gleam with what John can only describe as excitement.

“Oh, he was clever,” Sherlock murmurs darkly, his lips curling in grimace as if the idea is somehow abhorrent to him. John is itching to ask who Sherlock’s talking about but Sherlock doesn’t explain, instead motioning towards the door with a careless flick of his hand. “Lead the way, _Captain_.”

John barely masks his surprise in time at the use of his old title, but it doesn’t stop him asking the question. “How do you know that?”

Sherlock’s mouth quirks in one corner and barely a minute passes before he almost launches into the answer, the vibration of his words deepening as he speaks. “You’re an army doctor. Recently returned from Afghanistan or Iraq judging by the tan lines on your wrists, the style of your haircut and the army issue medical kit you’ve been using to treat the captives in this hanger.

“The length of your hair and colour of your tan suggest that you’ve been back in the country for less than two months, but you’re already having difficulties finding a job or least one that would provide you with the substantial income required to pay the rent on the shoddy bedsit the army have put you into.

“However, the lack of employment isn’t down to your expertise. Exemplary qualifications are a given so you’re overqualified for your typical GP surgery, but normally they would be happy to employ someone of your capability so it must be something else…” Sherlock pauses, considering, and John fights not to shift his left shoulder under the intense scrutiny. “Oh,” Sherlock breathes, his eyes narrowing as he takes in John’s discomfort. “It was an injury, wasn’t it?”

“How can you possibly know that?” John asks, whispers, because this shouldn’t be possible, it just can’t be…

“You’re barely into your late thirties,” Sherlock says. “Too young to retire and the army aren’t well known for awarding generous payments to their wounded soldiers, otherwise you wouldn’t have been in a position that you needed to accept this job.”

John knows this isn’t normal. He should be angry, he thinks, or at least he should feel some sort of indignation about the way this felidae has just spouted off facts about him as though reciting them from a script, but John doesn’t. It takes a moment for him to realise what it is, what he’s feeling, but less than five seconds for him to vocalise it. “That’s amazing.”

Sherlock tenses, his surprise evident in every centimetre of his body as his ears lower back against his head. “You think so?”

John doesn’t know how Sherlock knows what he does or whether it’s just a trick, but it doesn’t make it any less fascinating. “Yes. Marvellous really. How do you do that?”

Sherlock’s ears prick forward again, although his expression remains guarded. “I observed.”

A large metallic scrape echoes through the hanger, stopping John from responding as they both turn towards the direction the noise has come from. They’re out of time. “We have roughly two minutes before David and his men reach us,” Sherlock says quickly, climbing to his feet and kicking off the cloth wrapped around his hips towards the back of the cage.

John curses, striding towards the cage entrance and peering around the edge. The other felidaes are also curious, coming up to the bars of their own cages to watch what is undoubtedly going to be an interesting turn of events. John won’t leave them behind, but he needs to get something out the way first. He turns back towards Sherlock and notes the way the other man is standing, tail lifted off the ground and feet spread across the cage floor, distributing his weight evenly. John barely pauses, pulling out his mobile to send a pre-saved text to the Captain in charge of the backup unit.         

**Subject 221B identified**

**Secure & unharmed**

**Ten men onsite inc RL; tranqs only**

He pockets his mobile after the message has been sent, looking at Sherlock again and steeling himself before walking into the felidae’s personal space. Sweet Christ, this is going to hurt… “Punch me in the face.”

The look on Sherlock’s face is priceless and John has fight down the urge to grin; a mass of footsteps can be heard now and, if John can hear them, then Sherlock has been aware of David and his men for far longer. “We don’t have time for this, Sherlock, just punch me already and leg it!”  

John barely finishes getting the words out before Sherlock’s right fist impacts with his left eye. He sputters against the pain, hands automatically reaching up to cup the left side of his face even as the force of the blow sends his upper body tipping back towards the bars. Two strong hands reach forward and grab his shoulders, pulling him upright, and Sherlock is suddenly in his personal space, checking the extent of the black eye he’s just inflicted.

“All right?” Sherlock asks.

John gingerly presses an index finger around his left eye, wincing when the area throbs. “I’ll be fine, just go already.”

Sherlock releases his hold, lingering for only a second to make sure John can stay on his own two feet before dashing towards the exit and disappearing between the cages, his feet soundless on the concrete floor.

John quickly walks to the back of the cage and sits with his back against the bars, cupping his left eye with one hand and curling the other around his abdomen as though Sherlock has just winded him. David reaches the cage just after John gets into position and Sherlock’s escape is found out with a growled out curse from the ringleader. “What the fuck happened?” David spits, crouching down in front of John. “Where is he? The furry?”

“How the hell would I know?” John groans, lifting his hand away to show off what is bound to be a rather spectacular shiner; he’ll be having words with Sherlock about that later, if they make it out of this in one piece.

“Goddamn it!” David gets to his feet, glaring at the four men behind him. “What are you waiting for? Fucking catch him before he escapes!”

John watches the men nervously glance at each other before seemingly following David’s order; he barely keeps the smirk off his face when the men go in the completely wrong direction, almost the exact opposite of the way Sherlock went. “You’ll never catch him,” he says, pushing himself to his feet. “That felidae may be sick but he’s still fast. He’s probably fled the hanger by now.”

“No thanks to you,” David growls. “You’re supposed to be a bloody expert on these things!”

“If it weren’t for me, half your stock would be dead by now,” John retorts, not without some heat because he had a job to do and he did it bloody well. “You’re not paying me to make sure they don’t escape.”

David scoffs. “You’ll be lucky if you get paid at all.” He takes out a tranquiliser gun, checks it’s loaded, and motions John out in front of him with it. “You first, Doc.”

“Oh, so I’m bait am I?” John says, stooping down to pick up his med kit; he doesn’t take his eyes off of David as he does it.

“In a manner of speaking,” David sneers and motions again with the gun.

John purses his mouth, not attempting to hide his grimace; definitely _not_ the way he wanted this mission to go but he has little choice in the matter. At least David has a tranquiliser gun, not an _actual_ gun, and John takes a brief second to thank his lucky stars that, if he’s going to get shot, at least it’ll only be for an hour’s kip.

Their progress is slow; there are thirty cages with a total of fifty captives and most of them are pacing the length of the cage assigned to them, while those with children sit huddled in the centre where they can keep an eye on their surroundings. It takes John a moment to notice it; the individuals who are pacing are using the same movement to lure the eye from the felidae they’re searching for. They’re working together to keep Sherlock hidden.

John takes David past a cage that has a great beast of a male lion felidae inside it; his mane is flecked with grey and white and his right eye is glassy, but his focus is unwavering despite his age. John makes eye contact with him for briefest moment and it’s enough for him to see the glance the old male makes behind David. John acknowledges the information with a subtle movement of his head and eyes, the way he’s seen other lion felidae accept orders in his unit, and the felidae’s eyes gleam.

John purposefully leads David on a wild goose chase, trusting in Sherlock’s stalking ability to keep his footfalls quiet as the felidae trails behind them. John keeps a tally on the other men in the warehouse, making sure to keep away from them in the large space and counting down the seconds until the backup arrives.

“Fuck’s sake, where is he?” David says; he sounds nervous and John thinks he has good reason to be. It’s too quiet now, the dark tang of expectation hanging heavy in the air around them.

“I told you he’d be long gone,” he says, trying to detract the intensity of the situation as he turns to look David in the eye. And, really, the whole idea of lessening the tension was a good one until he spots Sherlock in his peripheral vision. A silver back smudged with black circles reflects in the hanger lights as Sherlock moves and his bright blue eyes are fierce beneath his shock of curls, completely focussed on his target. He’s on all fours, his body low to the ground and his tail held poised, and each placement of hand and foot is carefully analysed, each one completely silent as he closes the distance between them. The uniqueness of Sherlock’s biology, especially his ankles, allows him to almost glide along the hanger floor, a coiled spring just waiting for the opportune moment, for that split second when the prey can no longer escape and John barely remembers to keep breathing.

He hasn’t seen a felidae in full stalk mode since Afghanistan and it takes more effort than he would like to keep his attention on David’s face. They really are magnificent creatures and Sherlock is utilising every inch of his ability to keep David unaware of his presence and John isn’t sure it’s something he’s ever going to get used to seeing. “Well I don’t know what you expect me to do,” he says, drawing David’s attention back to him and shifting to his right; a small shift of weight that Sherlock is bound to see. “He’s not here and it’s a pretty safe bet he’s not-”

The attack comes as John is halfway through his sentence and it’s impossible to look away as it happens. Sherlock leaps onto David’s back, taking full advantage of John’s right side shift to push David down to the floor, and John uses the opportunity to grab a startled David’s tranquiliser gun before he can use it on his attacker. Sherlock quickly uses the momentum from his leap against David, using his substantial body weight to keep the dealer pinned on his front and snarling as he sinks his teeth into David’s neck at the base of his skull. One sharp bite, a twist and that’s it. David can kiss his black market trade goodbye; by the look of sheer terror on his face, it’s a fact he knows as well.

A loud screech and grate of metal announces the arrival of backup (late as usual) and an armed unit quickly makes their way to John’s position. John smiles when Captain Gordon is unable to hide his surprise at seeing his primary target pinned under John’s own.

“Sir, all targets captured,” a member of Gordon’s unit says; in the background, the shouts of David’s men being led away to the vehicles outside is a welcome sound.

“Very good,” Gordon says, finally taking his eyes off of Sherlock to look at John, unable to hide his amusement. “This one yours, Captain Watson?”

Sherlock releases his hold on David’s neck, still growling at David when the rest of the unit take the dealer into custody, zipping his hands together before leading him away. David doesn’t waste any time, spitting threats and insults in John’s direction, but John is more interested in the back of David’s neck as they watch him leave.

Sherlock didn’t draw any blood.

He looks back at Sherlock as the felidae gets to his feet, all lithe grace, and the growling stops as he licks the fur along the back of his right hand with a long tongue, his eyes brimming with satisfaction when he looks up at John from his grooming.            

“Yeah,” John says finally, after what feels like longest minute in history. “This one’s mine.”             

_To be continued_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Wanna chat? Gimme a hollar! ^_^
> 
> http://darkangel1211.tumblr.com/


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you to everyone who has shown this support for this story; I love you all! *hugs*
> 
> This story isn't betaed so please let me know if you spot any errors and I will fix them.
> 
> Enjoy! xxx

Now that John’s target has been successfully rescued from any ill-conceived smuggling attempts, it should have been easy to commence stage two of the operation. Specifically, to drop Sherlock off at the pre-arranged location in London and head back to his own apartment for a microwave dinner and some prime-time TV; however, once all the commotion has died down and the captives have been released, John quickly realises that it won’t be as simple as that.

It’s his own fault really; he should have been more aware of Sherlock’s whereabouts, or, at the very least, should have guessed at the felidae’s intentions, but it still doesn’t come as a shock when he finds out that Sherlock has gone missing.

A thorough search of the hanger is less than fruitful. The cages are all empty, their previous occupants currently receiving specialist medical care and transport to their own desired locations, so the lack of movement is quickly apparent. This isn’t a problem for John, however; Sherlock may be quiet and sneaky to boot, but he isn’t the first quiet and sneaky felidae that John has had to deal with.

Soon enough it’s pretty clear that Sherlock isn’t in the main area though and John’s pace turns brisk when he remembers the storage rooms around the back; the ones where the felidaes belongings were being kept until they could be sold at a later date on the black market. Everything was taken from them; clothing, jewellery, any money on their person at the time of capture.

Even their shopping.

John already knows that Captain Gordon’s unit has nothing to do with the redistribution of the items in the back rooms, nor is it John’s responsibility. A specialist felidae unit will need to be assigned as there’s something the owners will be very particular about and it’s not just their taste in adornments.

It isn’t long before John hears a low muttering outside one of the rooms, interspersed with the occasional growl, and the sight that greets him when he rounds the doorframe has him grinning from ear to ear, barely keeping himself from huffing a laugh. He leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms instead, his amusement palpable as he watches the room’s current occupant with unabashed interest.

The felidae in question is on his knees, his upper half almost buried in a pile of clothes as Sherlock pulls out different items and discards them, evidently searching for something by the sniffing and snuffling that John can hear him making. Normally this wouldn’t be funny in the slightest, but Sherlock is still in the same state of undress as before, and the only thing saving John from an eyeful of the felidae’s nether-regions is the fact that Sherlock has his tail lowered to keep his extremities away from any prying eyes.             

He leaves it for another minute, waiting to see if Sherlock will come out of the hole he’s made, but the felidae makes no attempts to do so. “Mr Holmes.” No response. John tries again, only slightly raising his voice because he knows Sherlock heard him the first time. “Mr Holmes, what the hell are you doing?”

Growling, the felidae emerges from the bundle of clothes, looking at John over his should in an extremely put out manner, and John wonders whether he’s a tail twitch away from a full blown pout. “Oh please, _Mr Holmes_ is my brother,” Sherlock says haughtily, sitting back on his haunches as he glares at John. “Just Sherlock will do. Have you seen my Belstaff?”

“Belstaff?” John’s never heard of it before.

“Yes, my coat,” Sherlock clarifies, turning back and almost burrowing his way into the clothes again. More sniffing can be heard and a few more items are pulled free and tossed aside before Sherlock releases a muffled noise of triumph, wriggling his way out and clutching a long and very expensive looking coat in his hands.

John immediately wants to ask if it’s really Sherlock’s, but given the way Sherlock is handling and sniffing the garment, that probably wouldn’t go down well. “It’s a nice coat,” he says instead, watching as Sherlock begins scenting it, grimacing when he locates a smell he’s not fond of.

“Yes,” Sherlock says distractedly, attention completely focussed as he rubs the pads on his hands against the fabric, stroking certain areas of the coat along the underside of his jaw on both sides.

John watches until Sherlock has finished marking his scent and shrugged the coat on, still scowling; it’s obvious that the scent is still unfamiliar and Sherlock can’t hide his distaste for it. “Ready to go?” John asks.

“I need to get back to my flat,” Sherlock says in way of reply, rising to his feet so he can do the coat up; his fingers make short work of the buttons and Sherlock’s nudity is soon obscured. He walks past John without a backwards glance, leaving John to follow in his wake.

John stays close behind Sherlock as they head to the main exit, his stride lengthening so he can keep up with the felidae’s gait. “You do know my orders are to take you to London to a pre-arranged location,” he says as they leave the hanger, the chill of the January air snapping on his heels.

“Are you still labouring under the impression that you're following Mycroft's orders?” Sherlock says, scenting the air before choosing a direction and quickening his pace from before, almost jogging towards the road that will take them out of the harbour and towards the town.

“Well, this ‘Mycroft' is the one who'll be paying me at the end of the day,” John says, keeping up with his wayward charge, his med kit clutched in one hand. He is momentarily distracted by the swirl of the wind around Sherlock's coat, causing the fabric to whip and curl around Sherlock's legs. Combined with the inherent grace of the creature in front of him, John is just waiting for the mist to come meandering through the town to complete the picture Sherlock is unintentionally reproducing.

“Take me back to my flat in London and I will personally exceed the payment he has offered you to take this job,” Sherlock says, coming to a stop and turning back to John with his ears pricked forward.

John stops, panting slightly as he gets his breath back; he's not as fit as he used to be before his injury, before all the medication and the physiotherapy and the general feeling of being absolutely useless. He looks up at Sherlock, quietly working out what he needs to do next because, although Sherlock words leave no room for argument, his tone is slightly imploring. So close to his freedom, Sherlock must be biting at the bit to get out of whatever government scheme could be waiting for him in London.  Or a cell, although from what John’s see so far, that seems unlikely. He’s a good judge of character and most felidae would rather lose a limb than end up in a cage of their own making.

Now they’ve left the hanger, the area around them is enclosed in darkness with only the moon’s light to see by so it takes a few moments for John’s eyes to adjust. In such low light, he’s is left momentarily speechless when he notices that Sherlock's eyes have turned a light turquoise to accommodate for the change, showing off Sherlock’s ability to see in the dark. The iridescence of his eyes is bright against the curls that John can just make out on the felidae's head, the remaining light reflecting off of the fur Sherlock's coat has left exposed so it glistens with silver, giving him an almost ethereal quality.

Christ, these things are beautiful.

"I can't ask you to do that," he says, mostly because he has no way of knowing if Sherlock even has that kind of money and partly because he feels obligated to do so. He needs some sort of funding one way or the other, but, if he doesn't get Sherlock to the pre-arranged drop-off, there's a very high possibility that he won't be paid at all. Given Sherlock's obvious reluctance to co-operate with John in this matter, it doesn't look like any money will be coming his way unless he at least goes along with Sherlock, but that also leaves him at the mercy of his employer who has significantly more power and resources than John could hope to acquire in his lifetime.

"Can I borrow your phone?"

The question throws John off of his train of thought, leaving him staring blankly at Sherlock. "What?"

"Mine was seized upon my capture and it's not in my coat," Sherlock says, which sounds completely reasonable when John actually thinks about it.

John hands over his phone, watching as Sherlock rapidly begins pressing buttons, probably sending a text. The glow of the screen changes Sherlock’s eyes again, the ice blue from before once again making an appearance. It takes John another moment to realise that Sherlock’s fingers have only sped up on the keys and he wonders how long the message is that Sherlock’s writing. "Letting someone know you've been rescued?" he asks.

"In a manner," Sherlock says, glancing up from the screen at John while his fingers are still typing. "The DI in charge of the investigation needs to know that his primary target is now in the hands of the British Government."

"You were after David?" John asks, taking back his phone when Sherlock hands it across, having finished his texting.

"Before my brother so kindly stuck his interfering nose into my business, yes, the ring leader was my primary target," Sherlock says and his tone turns seething for a second. John guesses that the often unstable sibling relationship he shares with his own sister can't be that different from the one Sherlock has with his brother.

"Well, you were literally an hour away from being herded off to some rich snob in Moscow who would have likely had you stuffed," John says, putting his med kit down and shoving his hands in his pockets; really, can't they have this discussion some place _warm?_ "I'd say it was a good thing your brother sent me in, otherwise Lord knows where you’d be by now.”

“Yes, which appears to be the only competent thing Mycroft has done thus far,” Sherlock growls, his ears turning down and his lips curling back from his teeth. He shakes his head, closing his eyes in what looks like frustration before he visibly shakes it off, opening his eyes again and stepping forward into John’s range. “How’s your eye?”

The question is unexpected but not entirely unwelcome; John forgot he was going to give Sherlock a piece of his mind about that. “It was fine until you mentioned it,” he says, one hand reaching up automatically to press his fingers to the bruise, checking the extent of the swelling. “Shouldn’t need more than an ice pack though.”

“Shame,” Sherlock says, sticking his hands in his coat pockets. “Seems I need to work on my technique.”

“No need to be an arse about it,” John mutters, scowling at Sherlock with his good eye. “If you were hoping to put me on the ground, it’ll take more than a black eye, trust me.”

Sherlock smirks, his eyes narrowing. “Nightly scraps with the felidaes in your unit, Captain?”

“I needed to work on my technique,” John replies, parroting Sherlock’s words back at him.

“Hmmm.” Sherlock grins, his upper lip pulling back and displaying a neat row of gleaming, sharp teeth. His canines are pressing into his lower lip and John can’t stop staring. “Well, Doctor,” Sherlock says, “as it seems we both require the practise, would you perhaps consider a mutually beneficial arrangement?”

John lowers his hand from his face and crosses his arms over his chest, intrigued. “What did you have in mind?”

“I’ve been looking for a flat-share,” Sherlock says. “Very reasonably priced and right in the centre of London in the main mixed species sector.”

“You’re asking me to move in with you?” John can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. “You’ve known me all of,” he glances at his watch, “three hours and you want to share a flat with me?”

Sherlock shrugs. “It’s your decision of course, but you’ll find that my flat is rather more spacious than your current living arrangements. Think of it as an added benefit that you will be able to spar with me as much as you require. I think you’ll find that I am more than capable of handling myself in a fight.”

The last is said with an excitement that Sherlock is obviously trying to contain and John can’t really think of a good reason why he shouldn’t move in with this felidae. Besides the obvious. “That thing you did back at the cage,” he says. “When you told me about Afghanistan? What was that really?”

Sherlock smirks. “Exactly what I said to you in the cage; I observed you. From what I observe, I deduce.”

John can’t help but be mostly impressed. “How do you use it? Normally?” If any of this can be counted as normal. He remembers the text Sherlock sent on his phone; something about a DI. “Are you a policeman?”

“Hardly,” Sherlock scoffs. “I’m a consulting detective.”

“Never heard of one of those before.”

“Nor will you; I’m the only one in the world since I invented the job,” and boy, does Sherlock look proud of this fact. “And before you ask what a consulting detective does, allow me to elaborate; when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me. Although Lestrade really ought to have known better for this case; he promised me an eight and this isn’t even worth a four!”

 John makes a mental note to ask Sherlock exactly what he means by that later but it’s not important right now. It’s not more interesting, but he feels it needs addressing. “I barely have enough money to pay the rent for my own apartment, Sherlock. I’m not going to be able to move with what little money I have.”

“Oh I wouldn’t worry about that,” Sherlock says. “The money I make from this case will be more than enough to cover your moving expenses and a few months’ rent for us both. The landlady offered me a special discount for sorting out a spot of trouble when her husband was in danger of being executed in Florida.”

“You stopped him from being executed?”

“Actually I ensured it.”

Oh…Clever _and_ dangerous.

John feels a small thrill up his spine, unlike anything he’s ever experienced since he returned from Afghanistan, and suddenly the decision is obvious. “My name’s John Watson.”

Sherlock smiles, holding a hand out for John to take and giving a firm, human handshake. “A pleasure, John.”

oOo

It takes them less time to hail a cab than John originally thinks and soon they're speeding their way off to Sherlock’s flat. The cabbie is human but doesn’t give Sherlock a second glance, just asking for their destination and proceeding to get them there with as little fuss as possible. There’s a sign on the windows and inside the cab, one that John was looking for when the cab turned up, and he’s more than a little relieved when he spots it.

It’s a simple image without any defining features of the people in it, showing the upper bodies of a human and a felidae facing each other, their depictions white against a dark green background. Their foreheads are pressed together and, at the bottom of the image, their right hands are clasped between their bodies; a symbol of unity against species segregation that came in just after the laws were abolished. It can be dangerous to display it publicly depending on which part of the country you’re in and John silently wishes the cabbie the best of luck as they climb into the back of the vehicle.  

By the time they reach 221B, the cab fare is on the border of being atrocious, but John still pays it at Sherlock’s insistence with a promise that he will be reimbursed once Sherlock gets access to his own funds again. The felidae sweeps ahead of him while John pays the cabbie, opening the front door and heading up a looming staircase, one which John tackles with admirable ease considering the state of his leg, to find Sherlock at the top of the stairs waiting for him. Sherlock nods to himself as his eyes make another sweep of John’s body, his eyes distant, before they come back into focus and he enters the flat, motioning John in after him.

John follows on Sherlock's heels and gets his first look at Sherlock's flat, coming to a stop when the overabundance of items literally stops him in his tracks. Felidae as a rule are simplistic in nature; they avoid clutter where possible and are meticulously clean, but he isn't sure that this applies in Sherlock's case.

It's not messy, not exactly, but it's enough to send a few felidae John knows into a cleaning spurt; he can't even begin to describe some of the things he's seeing - are those _experiments?_ \- but he doesn't question it. He hasn't officially moved in yet, despite their earlier conversation, and he's not about to start casting judgements on something he barely understands.

"So where’s your landlady?" John asks, turning around to see the felidae has hung his coat up on the back of the door and is stretching his arms above his head, his legs straining as he arches his back. Sherlock maintains the stretch until John hears an audible _click!_ and Sherlock groans in relief, relaxing into an easy stance. John tries not to think too hard about the fact that Sherlock is naked.

Well, as naked as a felidae can be.

"Visiting relatives in Surrey," Sherlock says, putting one arm behind his head and grabbing hold of one elbow as he stretches out his biceps. “She won’t be back until the end of this week.”

“So she doesn’t know you’ve asked someone to move in with you?”

“She knows I’ve been looking for a flatmate, if that’s what you’re really asking. She’ll pick up your scent as soon as she returns.” Sherlock doesn’t speak further, leaving John wondering which cat Sherlock’s landlady is most closely related to, but the felidae doesn’t go into any further details.

Effectively dismissed, John walks to the windows, pulling back a curtain to peer at the street outside; it's quiet at this time of night, so different to the usual herds of people during rush hour, and completely at odds with all the excitement of the last few hours. Given the choice between the two, John isn't sure which one would appeal to him more. 

"Dinner?"

John looks round to see Sherlock has finished, still naked and completely unashamed as he stands there with his arms crossed in front of him. John reminds himself that nudity for felidae isn't the same as it is for humans and it appears this one likes the freedom that comes with being free of clothing. Not that it's really important; all the bits that would be considered rude are all covered up in male felidae, the genital pouch serving as a biological loin cloth, and John was never that squeamish to begin with.

Still, it says a lot about a felidae who chooses this preference with someone they've just met.

He doesn’t say anything to this effect. "Starving,” he says instead, watching as Sherlock pulls out a Chinese menu to begin ordering.

It turns out the local Chinese take-away caters to both human and felidae tastes; John orders wanton soup for a starter and crispy chilli chicken with Singapore rice noodles. Sherlock orders strips of raw rib-eye steak with a sweet ginger and garlic sauce, considers for half a second, and adds a second wanton soup and whole raw prawns coated with crushed chilli flakes as well.      

Once the order is placed, Sherlock goes to the sofa along one wall and flops down on it, pulling a cushion under his head and closing his eyes. “You can sit down, you know.”

John knows, but he’s also not about to step into Sherlock’s personal space. This flat is very much Sherlock’s and, although he can’t sense it personally, he knows that Sherlock’s scent is a clear indicator of who has the greatest ownership here. Although the living room does have two armchairs near the fireplace…

He decides to opt for the fabric one rather than the leather one and he knows his choice is correct when a pleased rumble comes from the sofa. John grabs a union flag cushion and puts it behind his back, resting back against the seat and relaxing for what feels like the first time in days. He doesn’t want to think about it too much that he feels more comfortable here than he’s ever felt since his return to England, but with flat’s occupant so close and completely at ease, it’s difficult not to feel a little content.

It isn’t long until that peace is disturbed though and it’s not to the sound of doorbell ringing to confirm food has arrived. His mobile pings at him, informing him of the arrival of a text, and he fishes it from his pocket to see it comes from an unknown number. He debates just deleting the message and decides against it; given the time of the text, it’s likely to only be one person.

“Delete it.”

John pauses in opening the text, looking across to the sofa. “What?”

Sherlock huffs, opening his eyes and glaring at John’s mobile. “It’s going to be my interfering git of a brother who doesn’t know how to keep his nose out of other people’s business, you know that.”

Yes, but that interfering git of a brother also has enough power at his fingertips to make life very difficult for one John Watson.

“Tell him to piss off.”

John grins, shaking his head at the sound of the words, ‘piss off,’ in Sherlock’s rumbling baritone. “Like it or not, he’s still paying me for this job, Sherlock.”

Sherlock ignores him. “Here, I’ll do it for you.” He pushes himself up from the sofa and snatches John’s phone from his hands, evading John’s attempts to try and get his own phone back and pressing the keypad quickly before showing the now sent message to John.

**_Piss off, Mycroft! – SH_ **

“Sherlock!” John looks down at his phone when Sherlock eventually gives it back, wondering why he isn’t getting a series of increasingly threatening messages from what must be a now irate brother. “You can’t just-”

“I can and I just did,” Sherlock says, lying back down on the sofa as if everything hasn’t just been turned on its head.

Before John can retort, his phone pings again with a single message, again from an unknown source. He opens it gingerly, expecting a bombardment of not-so-idle threats and instead getting something completely different.

**Doctor Watson**

**Thank you for rescuing my brother - I see that he is in high spirits**

**I expect a full report in no less than two days’ time**

**\- M**

Huh… Seems like this Mycroft already knows just what his brother’s like.

He can’t help it; a giggle comes out of nowhere, his shoulders shaking with a mixture of mirth and relief; it looks like this Mycroft will be paying him after all.

He looks back across at Sherlock, seeing how the felidae has gone back to the same position as before, only with his hands pressed together below his chin, and wonders, not for the first time, just what he’s getting himself into. 

_To be continued_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Fun fact!
> 
> Cats have scent glands in their front paws - I thought it would be interesting for this same feature to be part of the felidaes biology as well. 
> 
> With all this research I'm doing, does it help that I'm a cat lover by nature?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hi everyone! I'm sorry this has taken so long to update but real life has been a bit of a cow. Unfortunately my cat, Gizmo, (who is also my profile picture) had to be put down. He was a poorly old thing by the end of his seventeen years so I've had to have a break from writing to mourn his loss. 
> 
> I still love you, my gorgeous boy! *hugs*
> 
> Anyway, I'm back in fighting form with a new chapter! It hasn't been beta'd so please let me know if you spot any errors. 
> 
> Enjoy my lovelies and thank you all so much for your wonderful comments and patience! xxx

A low grumble from the sofa distracts John from his musings and he looks across to see that Sherlock is staring at his fur with nothing short of distain.

_Ah…_

Sherlock still has all the dirt and grime from the cage buried in his coat.

“You might want to go and wash that,” John says, barely stopping himself from sniggering when Sherlock finally notices the state of his tail.

Sherlock lifts the offending limb off the floor and seizes the tip in one hand, irritably scratching at the fur and huffing when it just gets clumpy with his attentions. “This is _intolerable_ ,”he growls, lifting one leg and bringing his foot up to his face, checking the pads and claws. Sherlock’s leg goes completely straight at the knee, showing off his natural flexibility; the felidae actually has the ability to hug his own leg if he wants.

John keeps his eyes firmly above Sherlock’s waist in an effort to preserve what little modesty the felidae has left. It doesn’t look like much from where he’s sitting.

Sherlock growls again, removing what looks like a lump of dust from between his claws. He flicks it away with a look of disgust, his upper lip curling back from his teeth, and pushes himself up off the sofa. “The food has already been paid for,” he says, walking towards the kitchen. “I’m having a shower.”

That, John thinks, is the smartest thing Sherlock’s said all day. “See you in a tick,” he says, watching as Sherlock disappears through a door at the back of the kitchen before he takes the opportunity to look around while Sherlock’s busy.

The flat really is in a state, but it looks organised in its own strange way as well.  John is immediately drawn to the paperwork strewn over the coffee table in front of the sofa; reports of some kind, official looking, with a map on one corner. When John takes a closer look, he realises it’s a map of the hanger in Great Yarmouth, annotated with red marker and what appears to be Sherlock’s writing next to the building itself. It’s a scrawl, like the felidae couldn’t get the words down fast enough, and the same is true on the other documents left out. John hazards a guess that these are the plans for Sherlock’s own capture; the felidae was making sure he was adequately prepared for the group’s mannerisms and eventual smuggling operation before allowing himself to be put at the mercy of a gang that could’ve just shot him outright.

Whoever this Mycroft is, he was right to be concerned, but John’s not convinced that anything the mystery man says will ever influence the felidae in question.  

The doorbell rings, announcing the arrival of their take-away. _That was quick._ It’s been barely twenty minutes.

Sherlock is true to his word and John brings the bag of food straight to the kitchen, pausing when he remembers the table is currently occupied. It’s covered in lab equipment of which John is very hesitant to move; they’re definitely eating this in the sitting room.

Sherlock chooses that moment to come out of the shower, the pipes in the ceiling churning and rattling when the water stops. He still doesn’t have any clothes on when he comes back through the door into the kitchen, allowing John to see that the felidae scrubs up well. Sherlock’s curls have dropped into his eyes from where he hasn’t combed it yet and his fur is still damp, giving the felidae a fuzzy look about him, but John reckons that will calm down when it dries properly. The same can’t be said of Sherlock’s tail though, which is exactly as bushy as John thought it was going to be.

Sherlock barely stops to sniff the food, marching straight to the sofa and lying across it in almost the same position as before.

“Plates?” John calls, unpacking the take-away and making sure everything they ordered is there.

Sherlock makes a noise of assent from where he’s flopped himself down on the sofa and John distributes the food into portions, finding two bowls for the wonton soup and putting everything on a tray.

The felidae immediately takes his soup when John puts the tray on top of those official-looking documents on the coffee table, sipping at the hot broth with the bowl cupped in his hands. 

John chooses his soup as well, using a spoon to halve a wonton and humming at the flavour that bursts over his tongue. This is surprisingly good.

Sherlock reaches forward after he’s finished the broth and plucks a prawn from his plate, already peeled and deveined, with a liberal coating of chilli flakes. The noise he makes when he bites into the flesh is positively decadent and John wonders how long it’s been since he last had food like this.

“So it looks like I’m still getting paid,” John says after finishing his soup, reaching for his plate of chicken and noodles.

Sherlock looks up at him, his last prawn poised in front of his mouth. “I don’t see why that’s an issue; I’ve already said I’ll be paying you for the job.”

John stabs a piece of chicken with a fork; he just can’t manage chop sticks right now. “As nice as it is for you to offer, I still think there needs to be a compromise on my end. If we’re going to be living together, I don’t expect you to foot my half of the bill.”

Sherlock shrugs. “As you like,” he says, finishing his prawn and plucking his leftover wontons from his bowl with his set of chop sticks.

They eat in what could be termed as companionable silence for the remainder of the meal, which feels strange because John has never eaten in another felidae’s home before. He’s not sure how this works, whether there’s an unwritten protocol he needs to follow, but Sherlock seems content for the moment and John is more than happy to follow his lead.

The food is soon finished and the leftovers are put back in their respective containers. Sherlock stores them in the fridge himself, leaving John to relax on the chair, before he comes back with a large comb. John watches as Sherlock sets himself on the sofa again and begins grooming his tail, starting from the tip and working down until the fur gleams from his care.

Sherlock changes to his legs once his tail is mostly groomed, running the comb gently through the tangled fur near his ankles and knees, ensuring each section is smoothed over before moving onto a new bit. John notices that hardly any fur comes out while Sherlock combs himself and he wonders whether the felidae moults at all, or whether it’s only during certain seasons. As they’re at the start of winter, it’s likely that Sherlock already has his winter coat and won’t start shedding again until next spring. John can just imagine the mess that’ll make on the carpets when the season rolls around; Sherlock doesn’t look like the cleaning type.

Another silence drifts over the flat, interspersed with the rhythmic swish of the comb as Sherlock finishes his legs. John crosses one leg over the other, unashamed as he watches Sherlock continue his grooming. Some felidae are shy about doing this in front of humans, claiming that it emphasizes the difference their species, but John has never had a problem with that.

Evidently, neither does Sherlock.

Sherlock uses his fingers to check the comb, removing any loose strands. “Would you mind?”

“Pardon?” John hasn’t been listening. Has Sherlock been talking?

Sherlock tosses the comb over; John catches it on reflex. “I can’t reach my back,” Sherlock explains as he lies face down on the sofa, watching John through keen eyes.

“Oh. Right.”

_Awkward, John._

He’s never brushed a felidae before.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Surely you can’t be _embarrassed?_ You had your hands all over me in the cage barely six hours ago; why should this be any different?”

“Grooming is slightly different than checking for injuries,” John points out. “And definitely less personal.”

Sherlock huffs, like he can’t believe he’s having this conversation. “Think of it as an act of public service. You gave your patient an initial health check and now they require a thorough grooming.”

“Oh, so it’s a public service now?” John can’t stop the grin from splitting his face.

Sherlock growls, his upper lip curling back. “Call it whatever you like. Just get on with it.” 

 _Well, that’s me told_ , John thinks as he wanders over to the sofa.

Sherlock budges up a smidge so John can perch on the edge of a cushion, resting his head on his arms as he watches John over his shoulder. “Don’t be shy,” the felidae murmurs, dropping his head down to his arms and almost peeking at John under long lashes. “Be as firm as you like.”

 _Bloody hell…_  

John tries valiantly to ignore the heavy innuendo in Sherlock’s words, telling himself that Sherlock is just giving him permission to be as rough as he needs to be-

_Jesus Christ._

He really needs to get his head out of the gutter.

John takes a deep breath and pauses for a moment to give Sherlock time to get used to his proximity before running a hand over Sherlock’s back, checking for the places which require the most attention. Even with all the knots, Sherlock’s fur is soft, thick and very warm, smoothing through John’s fingers and tempting him to curl his hands into it. He pushes the thought away and focuses again, finishing his check of Sherlock’s back. There aren’t as many knots as he’d been thinking, but it’s still going to take some time to work through them all.

He decides to start in a neutral place, running the comb gently over Sherlock’s shoulder blades and following the direction the fur takes under his hands. It’s not so bad here, but it will accustom Sherlock to his touch so he can start working on the problem areas.

It’s when John moves up to the felidae’s neck that he gets his first reaction.

Sherlock rolls his head forward on his arms, exposing the back of his neck so John can reach the fur at the base of his skull. A thick, rumbling purr echoes from Sherlock’s chest, his spine arching when John focuses the comb on a particularly persistent knot.

_Huh._

The purring doesn’t stop and John takes it as permission to finish off the rest of Sherlock’s back, being careful at the base of his tail so he doesn’t inadvertently stab Sherlock with the comb by accident. He takes a gamble after Sherlock’s back is finished and gently seizes Sherlock’s tail, keeping it away from his body so he can work on the mess at the base which Sherlock hadn’t been able to reach earlier.

Sherlock's purring deepens almost immediately, a thick rumbling that seems to echo in the room, and John knows he’s going to hear the reverberations of it when he goes to sleep tonight.  

All too soon, Sherlock’s back and tail are groomed. John puts the comb down on the floor next to the sofa and gently runs a hand through Sherlock’s fur, checking for any further knots.

At least, that’s what he keeps telling himself.

Sherlock’s purring stops after a moment or two and he rolls onto his back, catching John’s hand when John goes to move back to his own chair. “You can do that again,” Sherlock rumbles, sounding both completely relaxed and demanding at the same time.         

"You’re welcome,” John replies, his words feeling like cotton wool. He can feel the pads on Sherlock’s hands, the firmness of them where they’re pressed against his skin. They’re no different to when he’d shaken Sherlock’s hand earlier that day, but it _feels_ different now.

Intimate.

He wonders belatedly whether Sherlock’s using their touch as a convenient excuse to scent-mark him.

Sherlock releases John’s hand after another moment, his fingers tracing down the length of John’s before they lose contact. John reminds himself to keep breathing when Sherlock pushes himself up from the sofa and goes to the kitchen, rummaging around until he returns holding a wine bottle and two glasses.

“What’s this, then?” John asks from his chair, accepting a glass.

Sherlock takes the leather seat opposite him this time, deftly uncorking the bottle and pouring a generous measure of red wine into John’s glass. “It’s usually customary for humans to celebrate an event by consuming numerous quantities of alcohol,” he says, swirling the ruby liquid in his glass gently. “In this case, we have two events to celebrate. The first is the capture of David and the end of his smuggling ring. The second is your decision to take the upstairs bedroom in what is a very generous proposal by the occupant of the flat in question.”

John raises an eyebrow, looking at Sherlock over the rim of his glass. “Oh really?” He takes a sip of the wine, humming appreciatively at the dark notes and the subtle hint of spice; Sherlock has excellent taste. “And when was this decided?”

"The moment we shook hands outside the hanger,” Sherlock says, his tongue dipping into his glass. This close, John can see it’s shaped like a cat’s tongue, long and flat unlike a human one. He watches as Sherlock delicately tips the glass back after tasting the wine, sipping at it before licking his lips, his eyes on John’s face the whole time.

Underneath that stare, it takes John a moment to get his train of thought back; he really can’t refute anything Sherlock’s said if he’s being honest. He’s pretty sure he was ready to say yes the minute the felidae posed the question but hadn’t wanted to seem too eager at the time. It’s not every day a human gets that sort of invitation from a felidae.

John turns back to his own glass, letting his silence answer for him as he crosses his ankles, tipping his head back so he’s resting against the plush cushioning of his chair. Sherlock shifts as well, stretching his legs out in front and curling one hand on his abdomen, the other supporting his wine glass. A quiet rumbling fills the air after a moment, deep and soothing.

They pass the evening in quiet conversation over the rest of the wine, Sherlock’s contented purr filling the spaces in between.

oOo 

It’s really quite late when John glances at his watch, noting that it’s just touching a quarter to midnight. They’ve finished the bottle of wine which is probably why he’s slumped in his seat, but Sherlock doesn’t look as if he’s faring any better. The felidae is stretched out as before and his eyes are almost closed, his tail curled loosely at the front of his chair. They’re clearly both falling asleep; if John’s going to get home before he passes out, he really needs to leave now.

Sherlock stirs when John starts to get up, his eyes opening to watch as John stretches his back out. “Sleep upstairs,” the felidae murmurs, his vocal vibration deepening with his tiredness.

John knows he’s more than a little tipsy; the idea sounds far better than it should. He shakes his head, feeling distinctly fuzzy around the edges. That wine was stronger than he thought. “I don’t have any of my stuff here,” he says, but it’s a weak excuse. He’s slept in day-old clothes before without any problem.

Sherlock waves a hand in dismissal. “I have a spare toothbrush and the bedroom is already furnished. It’ll be easier than trying to navigate the tube at this hour.”

It stupidly makes sense. John really can’t stand the idea of all that swaying in the underground and the thought of a warm, comfortable bed sounds just the ticket right now. “If you’re sure,” he says after a moment, rubbing at his tired eyes.

“It makes perfect sense,” Sherlock replies, pushing up from his seat and nudging John with one shoulder gently as he passes.

John follows Sherlock up to the second bedroom where the felidae pushes open the door but doesn’t go inside, instead motioning for John to proceed. The bedroom is indeed furnished, having a double bed in it, a set of drawers and a closet for John’s clothes. It’s wonderfully spacious for a second bedroom, much better than his dingy flat across London, and John turns back to see Sherlock is watching him expectantly.

“Yeah, this’ll do nicely,” John says, taking another long look around at what is going to be his new room. “Very nice indeed.” He works through the logistics and decides he can move in tomorrow if Sherlock is of a mind. It’s not like he had anything else planned and his superiors don’t want his report straight away. He has time.

“Good,” Sherlock says, stepping back from the door. “The bathroom is through the kitchen at the end of the hallway on the left side, should you require it.”

Sherlock departs after John gives him his thanks, his long tail kept off the floor as the felidae makes his way back downstairs, presumably to his own room which must be on the first floor. John closes the door after him and shrugs his way out of his clothes, putting them at the end of the bed and turning down the sheets which are clean and crisp.

His head barely touches the pillow before he’s soundly asleep, the remnants of Sherlock’s purr in his ears.           

oOo

Over the course of the next week, John continually thanks his lucky stars that he was assigned to a mixed species unit when he was in the army. It was largely down to his knowledge of their behaviours and anatomy (both of which are proving alarmingly useful at this rate), but he’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

When Sherlock asked him to move in at 221B, coincidentally the same number as the code name assigned to Sherlock originally, John knew there was going to be teething problems, but he hadn’t taken it into consideration that this particular felidae allowed himself to be captured by a smuggling ring. It only stood to reason that those same eccentricities would manifest themselves in Sherlock’s home-life as well, if only John had bothered to look.

He really ought to have known better.

It takes all of a morning for John to move in. He tries not to find it a sorry state of affairs when all his worldly possessions barely fill one suitcase, not including his box of army gear, but it does make the process of moving easier in the long run. Especially when one’s new flatmate refuses to lend a hand – err, paw? – with said move.

Turns out even felidaes don’t come when you want them to either.

It takes the rest of the week for things to settle down. Sherlock is notoriously possessive of his things, growling initially when John’s own belongings make their way from his bedroom upstairs and into the shared living space of the flat. Well, growling when John’s items are close to Sherlock’s things, but this soon dies down as Sherlock becomes accustomed to John’s presence in his territory.

Mrs Hudson, Sherlock’s landlady, comes back by the end of the same week. John is surprised to see she’s a pure-breed, a Birman, but she’s a smaller felidae who definitely has Sherlock wrapped around her little finger (going by the familiar way they’d said hello when she came into the flat). She welcomes John with a customary greeting between their species when she first sets eyes on him, cautiously taking in his scent from a safe distance and then allowing a small handshake. She seems friendly enough, her smile unfettered by his human origin which John is grateful for. It’ll take time for her to warm up to him, he thinks, but he’s not going anywhere.

As requested, John hands in his report to his superiors within the two days specified and checks his bank balance to see that the money has already been transferred. It’s for the whole amount, even though he never dropped Sherlock off as planned; he counts his blessings and makes an immediate run to Tesco’s to stock up on food.

Living with a felidae in a civilian environment is very different to the army, he reflects as he walks down the aisles with a basket in one hand. You knew where you stood with the army. Each man had his own bunk; his own regiment; his own commanding officer. The felidae fell into rank and file as readily as any human, regardless of gender, understanding the necessity of co-operation between their species to ensure the success of any mission.

Here in London, the lines aren’t so clearly drawn; the two species are less inclined to mingle in crowds, preferring to stick to their own, but it’s easier in the mixed sectors. They’ve come a long way since the end of the segregation laws, but John still recognises the fact that there’s still a long way to go.

He only shops for the basic essentials, catching a cab back to the flat with the sum total of one shopping bag in his hands. The flat is still a state despite his cursory attempts to tidy up, a direct result of Sherlock himself, but John’s not about to let his frozen goods defrost because the resident felidae has gotten in a strop over an experiment he’s working on.

Sherlock is really quite good at making a complete nuisance of himself, John thinks as he puts his shopping away. If John tries to clear up the kitchen, as an example, Sherlock will make a point of using something for an experiment before discarding it barely five minutes later, leaving whatever experiment he’s concocted to fester and grow until John’s forced to clean the damned thing up.

With protective gloves and a lot of bleach just because Sherlock can’t stand the smell.

_Yeah, as if that’ll really teach him a lesson…_

Said felidae is watching John put his food away from his chair in the living room, his knees pulled to his chest and his arms crossed over his legs. He hasn’t said a word to John since he woke up this morning, but John hadn’t been concerned. Half of Sherlock’s origin are loners by nature, if John’s got the snow leopard part right, so it doesn’t surprise him when Sherlock seeks his own space while keeping an eye on John’s whereabouts. 

It certainly didn’t stop him from waving at Sherlock when he came back from shopping, ignoring the glare and narrowed eyes and that was when he properly noticed it.

The felidae is like a coiled spring in his chair; he’s clearly agitated about something, but John can’t figure out for the life of him what’s going on in Sherlock’s head and any questions he’s asked have been left unanswered.

They’re barely into the second week when it all comes to a head.

John makes a point of reading on a Wednesday afternoon; this time it’s some sort of crime novel that Sherlock has on his bookshelf, dusty from neglect, and he’s just started the second chapter when the damned thing is ripped out of his hands and hurled across the room, barely missing a window pane.

“What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?” John says, glaring up at the felidae standing over him. He was just getting into that.

Sherlock’s bares his teeth in response, the only answer he’s apparently willing to give. It isn’t the first time Sherlock’s bared his teeth at him, but John senses there’s something different now. Is this the culmination of all the tension Sherlock’s been carrying around with him since he moved in?

John huffs and stands up, keeping his eyes on Sherlock as the felidae backs away. He automatically checks Sherlock’s body language for the warning signs; knows that Sherlock knows he’s doing it when the felidae spreads his feet, his hands relaxed but poised at his sides.

He recognises a fighting stance when he sees it.

“You do know you could’ve just asked if you wanted to spar,” John says, watching as Sherlock lowers his centre of gravity; the felidae’s tail is perfectly still.

John hasn’t been here for very long, but he knows that’s usually a bad sign.

“How can you stand it?” Sherlock asks, although it comes out more like a snarl.

“Stand what?”

Sherlock makes a frustrated sound as one hand curls into his hair. “This!” He gesticulates to the flat in a tight sweeping motion, but that still doesn’t help John in any way that’s remotely useful.

He opts for action instead, recklessly turning his back on the agitated felidae and pushing his chair towards the nearest corner. After it’s out of the way, he turns back and picks up the small table to put it beside the chair. He leaves Sherlock’s chair where it is, walking around it to the coffee table and carefully pulling it towards the windows next to the desk, opening up the entirety of the space in front of the sofa.

John looks around and nods to himself. That should be plenty of room now. 

It’s then that he realises the flat is deathly silent and he still has his back to Sherlock.

_Oh crap…_

He barely turns in time as Sherlock launches himself across the small space between them; barely gets a firm grip on the felidae’s shoulder and one wrist as they both tumble to the floor.

John takes most of the impact of their combined weight, grunting when the air is forced from his chest. He moves instinctively, knowing he has to get up off the floor before Sherlock gains the advantage.

Sherlock hisses when John bucks his hips, throwing him off balance from where he’s straddling John to try and pin him to the floor, and John uses the momentum from the shift to pull on Sherlock’s arm and push on his shoulder to try and do the same to Sherlock.

Only Sherlock is already moving to counteract it, leaping up from John’s body and backing away across the room.

John scrambles to his feet, eyes watching Sherlock as he tries to get his breath back. Sherlock just grins at him, all harsh lines, feral and dangerous.

John doesn’t hesitate, already going in for a shoulder barge into Sherlock’s stomach, a move which Sherlock absorbs with natural grace and a deep laugh that makes the hairs on John’s arms stand on end.

 _God_ , it’s been so long since he’s had a good tussle like this.

The fight lasts for ages, or possibly only a few minutes, and ends with the both of them grappling on the floor. They’ve pretty much stopped fighting now, but they aren’t backing away from each other, lying on the floor with their limbs hopelessly entwined as they tried to better each other through physical strength alone. Which is stupid on John’s part because he knows Sherlock is so much stronger than him.

He takes note of the damage, more than relieved that no blood has been shed. Sherlock’s claws have ripped into his jumper and John’s pretty sure he’s yanked out some of Sherlock’s fur somewhere along the way, but they’re both breathing heavily and grinning stupidly at each other.

“Stalemate?” John pants.

Sherlock grunts an agreement. “You know, you really are quite something, John Watson.”

 _Oh…_ He wasn’t expecting that. “Oh really?”

Sherlock smirks and his eyes dart down from John’s eyes to his lips for a brief second. “Oh yes.”

Whatever retort John wants to make, can even think of making, is lost in the echo of footsteps up the staircase. A human man emerges through the door and takes in their appearance with a look of complete shock before Sherlock interrupts whatever the stranger might say.

“What’s happened?”

“It’s another feliman pairing,” the man says, panting from where he’s just run up the stairs. “Or we think it is. Will you come?”

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “Who’s on forensics?”

The man grimaces. “Anderson.”

Sherlock scoffs. “Anderson won’t work with me.” He looks back at John. “Well, Doctor Watson? How do you feel like a little trip to a crime scene?”

“Sorry, what?” John has no idea what he’s talking about. What’s all this about a crime scene?

Sherlock’s eyes gleam, his smile positively luminous. “There’s been a double murder of a human and a felidae. Obviously.” 

_To be continued_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it me, or are things starting to get hot around here? 
> 
> If you like, you can follow me here: darkangel1211.tumblr.com
> 
> Until next time! xxx


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